by Cody W Urban
“After the battles up north against the Goths and Visigoths were ended, I returned to Lycia and went to Patara to find your loved ones,” Lysander paused knowing he was nearly setting himself up for bearing more bad news and so chose his words carefully to keep the topic focused on his uncle. “I spoke with your uncle and he explained to me the plans he had for your life and that he hoped, as the Prodigal Son, you would return home one day.”
This sounded much like his uncle and now the tears flowed once more and it was all Nicholas could do to limit them in the presence of the rough and masculine cohorts of his. “Did he say much else?”
“He couldn’t, for we mourned your loss together, and then he turned very silent. He lived speechless until he passed,” he said, wishing to bite his tongue rather than keep spilling these ill tidings. Although he couldn’t quite keep himself from continuing—Nicholas deserved to know. “Your vanishing broke his heart, though he held sturdy.”
Nicholas turned and stood at the doorway, filled with emotion, and if he spoke much he might just weep, so he pressed his lips shut tight. He wanted Lysander to stop, but he needed to hear all the news he could get.
“All along I held Flavius suspect of your demise,” Lysander added, changing the subject as best he could.
“He is,” was all Nicholas could say.
Nicholas went back to work, hoping that helping others would take away his gloom as it has before. “Verily, such a shadow I beheld. Ergo I remained on his heels, watching his moves, waiting to uncover the truth. Maybe leaving was not the wisest decision,” Lysander said thinking aloud. “Now, I have taken up with brigands, abandoning my post, losing my place for which I could exact your revenge.”
“Such revenge is mine alone to take!” Nicholas snapped, his distress transforming into fury. “On Flavius and Vasilis.”
Lysander paused, dumbfounded. He had been trying to avoid the news about Nysa and was grateful he hadn’t yet inquired about her. Now it seemed as though Nicholas was privy to that information and it perplexed Lysander. “Vasilis... how did ye know about him?”
“A vision granted by Elven magic, if you’ll believe it. The governor of Lycia had me killed in battle to take my love for himself. His avarice has stolen my life from me.” Nicholas didn’t want to let this all come out again. Now he felt worse for letting Flavius escape and his heart began to frost over once more.
“Dear, poor, Nysa,” Lysander sighed, filled with remorse, mourning that loss for Nicholas. But to Nicholas, he didn’t quite know why he was mourning. This whole time he hoped that Vasilis’ wealth would make Nysa a happy woman. Yet Lysander mourned her heavily.
“What do you know about Nysa?” Nicholas asked, trying to regain his emotional fortitude.
Still in his own thoughts, and reluctant to bring this information to light before his old friend, Lysander could only mutter, “The poor girl, seduced and used.”
“Lysander, what became of her? She’s not happy?”
Lysander sighed, making himself ready to divulge the saddest affair of his already tragic report. “Vasilis took Nysa, sure enough. Seduced her in her time of grief over your death. The wretch and her were wed, then not long after, expected a child. Vasilis was overjoyed and maybe for that moment, Nysa had found some happiness, yet it was for not,” Lysander said and then fought his lip from quivering. “Alas, when the child was stillborn she tried to take her life. None have seen her since.”
Nicholas was afraid to request clarification, but he knew he had to. He psychologically rode on a sinking ship and clarity could possibly bring him from it, or plunge him deeper. Either way, he needed to know. “Is she… then is she-“
“Vasilis went mad shortly after,” Lysander said, dodging the question and redirecting the malice upon the culprit of the crime. “Ruling in wrath, desecrating all in the spirit of Emperor Diocletian. Overpowering the rights of the Lycian League, oppressing regardless of religion or creed. Now a gloomy mystery veils Lycia. Children vanish like vapors in the wind not to be found, and reports of fell creatures, succubi and incubi...” Lysander paused, knowing his tale to be turning fantastic, but kept on seeing Nicholas’s eyes widen in fright and belief. “They are not talked about by most, for if anyone spreads these rumors they are quietly taken by Vasilis’ men and never heard from again.”
Nicholas couldn’t comprehend all he was hearing and his head felt as though his skull dislocated itself from his spine and whirled around. Lysander was describing Krampus, foul beasts attracted toward darkness in men’s hearts. He also described Nysa suffering and Vasilis agonizing and taking his sorrow out on an entire nation. Nysa endured appalling angst and for a moment his iced-over heart was glad to hear the one whom he loved, who professed to love him always, was so easily swayed to marry a murderer. For that brief second, Nicholas enjoyed her grief. For that moment, Nicholas tasted evil.
“So, she has suffered for betraying me, just as she deserves…“ Nicholas spoke with venom soaking each word.
“Nicholas!” Lysander shouted. The indignant tone of his heathen friend knocked Nicholas out of his wicked trance and saw all eyes gazing upon him. His mind and soul had been tossed back and forth in the gale of a harsh tale, and he needed a moment to process before he forgot who he was amidst the rapidly transforming ideas he believed in. “How dare you utter such horrific words. I said we do not know what has happened to that girl to soften the blow, for the common news is she is dead. Speak not so foul over the dearly departed!”
The ice melted off his heart and the emotions he never wanted to experience crashed upon him like a tidal wave. He felt as though his emotional ship had sunk, succumbed to a torrential storm of heartbreaking reports. Every muscle quivered, but he fought to remain sturdy in the presence of the spectators around. “Nay. I did not mean that. I do not think that.” And with that he fled the scene out onto the deck, to the bow, and in the cool night air under the veil of darkness, Nicholas crumbled to his knees and wept.
This was Nicholas, now: As what comes with all maturing men, one experiences thrilling victories and shameful defeats, and has only to grow from both. Nicholas had now put such adolescence behind him and was ready to be the man he was supposed to be. He always hated people telling him his destiny as though he had no choice in it. The truth was, one does have a choice in it, and when one chooses to deny it, one will suffer losses and traumas. Then you are faced with more choices: how will you react to these losses? One could choose to accept them, grow calloused, and enjoy whatever lot one has chosen in spite of the losses. Or one can choose to feel the deep wounds and accept the truth that they are self-inflicted. And with that choice comes yet another choice. Remain still and endure the pain until you die, or do something about the pain and possibly undo the damage.
He felt he was guilty of sin. He sinned against his uncle by rebelling against him. He sinned against Nysa by leaving her. He sinned against his parents by dishonoring their memories by joining the authority that executed them. He was covered in blame and shame. He sinned against himself by irresponsibly procrastinating moving on to rectify his life and all the while lugging around the burdens of betrayal and malice in a sack slung over his shoulder.
Nicholas was raised to be a priest. Really, he was raised to serve and to give, to befriend and comfort, to lend a helping hand to those in need, and to do what was possible to make the world a better place. At this moment he was so close to praying to the God he felt had abandoned him, and only a silent prayer escaped from his thoughts and drifted heavenward. He was crushed by the knowledge Lysander had brought him, but he knew he had to do something with it. He needed to believe in Heaven, at least that there was an afterlife that his uncle and Nysa were at. He needed, like needing air, to believe that they were alive somewhere, and happy. But such beliefs have strings attached, and those lead to responsibilities. It was time to return home and undo the wrongs he had been running from. His time fighting the futile fights against the iron empire up north had ended, for he kne
w all along that the world was not going to be saved by war. It was time to return to Lycia, face the demons that Vasilis brought upon the land, and somehow, though he knew not how, through the power of goodness and justice he would conquer the darkness there. He felt as though Kenalfon, his Uncle, and Nysa watched him from above, and he would make them proud.
And his prayer returned to him in a glimmer of hope at that moment. He felt there was a possibility that Nysa was alive, and that all may not be lost yet. And the guilt he felt he knew he could remove. Somehow, he would honor the God he abandoned, and earn, if he could, redemption.
“I have hoped against hope that you still had breath, and here I find you well. Let not my tales trouble you. A new life you have here,” Lysander said, coming up from behind. Nicholas stood up from his sulk at the bow and looked toward the black horizon. His hair blew in the wind and Juno sat by his side, and he wiped a tear from his face. Pete, Hákon, Ranveig, Tryggr—leaning on a crutch—and Snorre stepped up behind Lysander hoping to console their friend.
“No, Lysander,” Nicholas said and turned to face Hákon showing an expression of deep resolve. “I am leaving.”
“Leaving?” Hákon asked, a bit shocked, mostly ready to support his friend in his decision, but eager to offer advice if he could. “And why is that?”
“With my earnings of the spoils I wish to buy passage home. For there I ought to be.”
“You depart with a fool’s hope to save Nysa,” Lysander said. “There is nothing for you there. We do not know if she still breathes or not. Beside all, Vasilis is exceedingly powerful. Roman guards work for him and so might those fell monsters that roam the nights. Nicholas, stay here. We can sail the seas, you and I, it will be like times of old. We’ll live free from the grasp of Roman reign. Don’t waste your strength on false hopes.”
“I appreciate the counsel, yet you cannot stop me from going back,” Nicholas explained.
Ranveig walked up, rested her hand on Nicholas’s shoulder, and then said forebodingly, “A tough path is the road of revenge. One I know all too well, believe me.”
Nicholas moved to respond when Tryggr interjected saying, “A Norse saying goes: return gift for gift, laughter with laughter, and betrayal with treachery.” After everyone looked at him for a moment, his expression warmed and he added, “My heart goes with yours, friend.”
Nicholas nodded and looked around at the gathering until his eyes rested upon Pete’s. Pete smiled and said, “There is no sense in speaking about it. You know I’m joining you.”
“Lad, you are made free. Oft have I told you this. You are not required to adhere to me,” Nicholas protested.
“At your side I choose to be,” Pete said unwaveringly.
“Ye will be missed, lad,” Snorre said on the brink of sentimentality. It was the least boorish he had ever been with Nicholas as his voice gave the slight sound of choking.
“Aye, you all as well,” Nicholas said, placing an assuring smile on his face.
After standing strong and silent, Hákon stepped forward and said, “Words of praise will never perish nor a noble name. Nicholas, our blessing ye have always. We will take you as far south as I am willing and aid in your journey home.”
“Thank you, Lord Hákon. I have grown and learned much in my stay with you folks. The world is a vast place, yet it is one world nonetheless and we share it together, and so we never truly leave each other.”
He then looked to Lysander who sighed and acquiesced. “I will be at your side when you see there is nothing you can do, Nicholas. And there I will be in your need, my friend.”
And thus Nicholas’s time with the Norse folk had ended and his mission of redemption had begun.
Chapter Nine
A Strange Way to Save the World
He certainly must have been surprised,
At where this road had taken him.
Hákon sailed as far south as he was agreeable, never bold enough to venture further than where his brother perished. They came to the port town of Nantes in the country of Aquitaine and said their final good-byes. There Nicholas, Lysander, and Pete, along with Sleipnir and Juno, boarded a merchant’s ship The Voluptuous Vixen and traveled down and then east into the Mediterranean. The warmth there was nostalgic to Nicholas who hadn’t experienced the heat of a noonday sun like this for a long while. Then they bartered passage aboard The Crafty Cupid and docked just outside of Rome; it was the closest to Rome Nicholas had ever been. He really wished never to visit the place where Christians were fed to lions in coliseums as sport and entertainment. It wasn’t long until they found another ship that was heading eastbound to Syria and would make port at Myra.
Now aboard The Silver Belle, they hit a ferocious storm. Crack! went thunder only seconds after the lightning struck. The Roman trade vessel fought through the tempest, the gale, and the crashing waves. It was a storm reminiscent of the great one that The Dashing Dancer fought through to escape Roman Warships. Crewmen ran about, hanging tight to ropes, enduring through the storm and trying to steady themselves despite the violently rocking ship. Pete lost grasp of the rail and stumbled only to be caught by Nicholas who pulled him back quickly.
“Hold tight, Pete!”
“I try!” Pete shouted over the wind. “Think ye this a worse tempest than the one we braved up North?”
“Nay,” Nicholas said, not sure but willing to impart hope. “We conquered that storm, and this one we shall prevail too.”
Lysander, fighting the swaying, struggled his way to Nicholas and had to shout above the storm. “Crew says to stay up here should the hull break up!” Nicholas replied by making eyes toward shivering Pete to plead that Lysander keep thoughts of the ship breaking apart to himself.
“We pass Nissos Kassos to the port side. Lycia is not far,” Nicholas said, keeping his mind off the peril around them, and for his pets stored below. While he spoke he caught sight of a crewman, a twenty-year-old named Illias whom they’d met in passing during their stay aboard The Silver Belle, precariously handling a rope standing upon the starboard rail. He was a young, cocky sailor who acted as the world was his playground so it was not irregular to see him put in harm’s way only to untangle a knot. Nicholas noticed and wanted to warn the fellow, but he was deep in thought knowing his homeland was within leagues and kept from moving toward Illias. Plus, he was a passenger; this man was part of the crew and he didn’t feel it was his place to advise a professional.
Lysander watched Nicholas silently stare into the crashing waves with a glum daze. “Pray, my friend, speak your mind.”
“‘Tis nothing,” Nicholas replied at first until he knew his friend was there for him for a reason. “Far too many bitter memories return as home comes nigh,” he confessed.
“None force you to return,” Lysander said, returning to his initial argument he had with Nicholas.
“Aye,” Nicholas nodded. “And yet, I am compelled. This is my responsibility and I will honor those whom I love by doing so. I would have their forgiveness.”
“And yet you have not told me what you plan to do!” Lysander said, just when the boat heaved as a giant wave struck the hull. The ship heaved back again and another wave smashed Illias hard, casting him over the side. Nicholas and other crewmembers dashed over to the rail from whence he fell and froze in fear for the doomed sailor. Illias hung tightly to a loose cord, dangling amongst the smashing billows.
“Help! Please, God! Help me!” Illias cried out.
Nicholas clutched the cord and tugged fervently, lifting Illias upward. “Will nobody lend a hand?” Nicholas shouted. Finally the dumbstruck sailors grabbed the rope and tugged as well. Illias rose up, nearly in reach, when another massive wave pounded him to the hull. After he fell weakened to the rocky water he drifted out away from the boat amongst the turbulence.
“Alas!” Lysander shouted.
“Lost, he is!” added another sailor. Nicholas grew worried they were talking themselves out of responsibility for doing all they could t
o save the man. “No way to save him, not in this tempest!” Nicholas scowled at them for a moment, disgusted by their excuses for letting an imperiled person drown, but he did not wish to spend time judging them or lamenting their attitudes. No, he conceived a plan instantly.
He dashed toward another rope and tied an end about his waist. “What have ye set your mind to?” Lysander asked.
“You and Pete pull me back when I say,” Nicholas replied, tossing the other end of the rope into Lysander’s hands.
“Or I shan't even let you go now!” Lysander protested.
Nicholas ignored him and went toward the rail when Pete stepped in his way. “Master, I pray, do not go! For surely you step toward death!”
Nicholas patted the boy’s head as he continued to ignore their pleas and stepped hurriedly onto the ledge. “Be sure neither of you let go of that rope or this is in vain!”
Before Lysander could shoot him another protest, Nicholas dove into the sea and swam away from the ship. He conquered the whitecaps, swam through the deluge, fighting the waves from suffocating him. When the crashing waves almost overcame him he decided he would plunge under and swim beneath the whitecaps. Finally, in desperate need of air, he popped up and when he tried to fill his mouth with oxygen, it was salty water instead. He gagged and coughed; now perceiving the hopelessness from which Lysander tried to keep him. But no, he knew it was his mission to save this man. It was part of the river of destiny he determined to flow down, and thinking of how desperate he felt made him sense just how much more distressed Illias must have been. He loathed thinking about giving up, so he coughed out the water, kicked his feet harder and heaved in a mouthful of air and then swam boldly again until he reached Illias. Nicholas grabbed him tightly and wrapped his arm around the sailor’s chest. Illias floated unconsciously and Nicholas kicked extra hard to hold the man’s head out of the water as he waved toward the ship.